


Strengthen

by SnarkySharke



Series: Fate Drabbles [7]
Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Prototype: Fragments of Sky Silver, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: Arthur has Big Dad Energy, Gen, Mordred has slight PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29331273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkySharke/pseuds/SnarkySharke
Summary: Arthur had never been a gifted student, but Merlin had taught him that by thinking long and hard, he could outsmart those who were born to it. He could always find a better way.
Series: Fate Drabbles [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597582
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	Strengthen

_The battle is to survive. Kay, approved._

_The enemy is more powerful than you. Bedivere, approved._

_The enemy is not an elemental. Lancelot, approved._

_Your comrades are courageous. Gawain, approved._

_The battle is for truth. Agravain, approved._

“This is a battle to save our world,” Arthur finished, the winds dying and the world slowing around him. Six seals. It was not enough.

 _There is no excuse for war, none whatsoever,_ Merlin had said to him once so long ago, before he believed it himself. _Wars are a wickedness, perhaps the greatest wickedness of a wicked species. There is only one fairly good reason for fighting a war -- and that is, if the other man starts it._

These Lostbelts stood on the neck of the world, holding it underwater, too late to save but perhaps not for resuscitation. Yet still they were worlds; worlds which had done nothing, not intentionally. The weave of fate had taken away their future and Crypters brought it back through violence, and yet it was not the Crypters that Chaldea had to destroy. Arthur wasn’t sure how his old friend would judge it; all he could do was remember the garden in Tokyo, the girl in need of a guardian, the moment he realized he had already done his best to pass on hope to the next generation, and now just as then he had to fight for the world in front of him, not obsess over past failures.

Perhaps Atalante Alter had been right. Perhaps they were on the wrong side. 

_Do you know what is going to be written on your tombstone? Hic jacet Artorius Rex quandam Rexque futurus. The Once and Future King._

_I wonder whether they will remember, about our Table. What sort of people will they be, Merlin?_

Arthur had spent all his waking life trying to make the best of the world. Laws over Lords. Right over Might. Perhaps a fruitless effort from the beginning, but even so he tried over and over until his death. Now, after death -- or perhaps just before -- it was his duty to still protect it. To preserve that ember of a chance he had sought to ignite for so long. There was still hope for their world. Arthur didn’t need anything more than that. There was no way for him to stop the fire from dying, but he could fight to protect the embers until his last breath.

But it wasn't enough.

Arthur woke in a light sweat, wincing at the burns still present over his torso as he sat up in bed. They were healing quickly; the dynamo of mana that beat in his chest instead of a human heart sped his recovery far faster than other servants, more dependent on Master who was still, perpetually, exhausted. Arthur’s wounds were healing fast, but not gone yet. Such wounds had been common enough in his life, but he wasn’t used to them anymore. 

It should have been an easy victory. Arthur had been granted this blade of prophecy and triumph to protect the world. It was sickeningly ironic that it was so difficult to use it under those exact circumstances. His mind was still racing over the battles they had faced in the ice and snow of the strange discarded Earths, thinking. How could he have done better? He had never been a gifted student, but Merlin had taught him that by thinking long and hard, by knowing the enemy, learning and breaking their self-imposed rules, he could outsmart those who were born to it. He could always find a better way. 

He missed her. It seemed like only yesterday she had sent him off again from Avalon, and it seemed like a lifetime ago. 

Arthur had been able to rise and meet similar threats even under the same limitations. Beast VI, in Tokyo. Twice, in fact. Beast IV, when he’d been alive. Tiamat, Beast II, had been far more dangerous with her high authorities, and Goetia, Beast I, had held immense power and limitless numbers in his timeless temple. But they had come through. It had always required the strength of comrades. Without them, he would have been dead long ago, over and over again and again.

It wasn’t a weakness. He was born to lead, to unite, not to fight and destroy. At least, that was the path he had set himself to. The draconic blood in his veins gave him raw power, but he had less experience and natural talent than many members of his own Table. Kay and Bedivere, his oldest friends and still a fearsome force on the battlefield when the banner was raised, a two-headed Welsh dragon to overwhelm the enemy. Agravain and Gawain, keen weapons of body and mind forged in the fires and moors of harsh Gododdin. Gareth and Gaheris, tutored by their brothers and quickly proven as young prodigies. Tristan, more than just a harper but the best knight in all Dumnonia, one of the very few able to duel Lancelot to a standstill. Dear Lance and his son needed hardly be mentioned.

His son. 

Master’s magical energy was limited. Mustering the entire Round Table in any one Lostbelt would be out of the question, though their familiarity and the affinity of their weapons would have been a tremendous advantage. What else could he do, with the least tools to work with? 

There was another heart that held the fury of a dragon.

On the hill of Camlann, Mordred -- a different Mordred -- had declared he would burn all the world in the name of his father, to narrow the world down to just the two of them. The Mordred in Chaldea was different. She too had razed Camelot, true, but it had been the anguish of a child used and rejected by both her parents, not the plotting of a madman obsessed with the shadows of his. 

Perhaps his Mordred had been beyond saving, perhaps not -- perhaps Arthur had failed his son. This Mordred was not his daughter. Her wounds were not inflicted by his hand, nor were they his to heal. Perhaps not. 

But she was still loyal, as long as it was returned. She was still relentless, for as long as others were and even still when they were not. Behind the anger that roared in her eyes there was a purity in her heart -- the goodness Arthur had hoped to see within his son when they met on that fateful hill.

  


* * *

  


“Mordred.”

The Knight of Rebellion’s ears perked at the sound of her name through the din of lunch. It was that… other Arthur, the man from another world. He was looking at her in his strange way again.

She was alone today. She didn’t feel up to more olive branches with her father -- the other one, her real… female... father… -- and the other knights had all made their excuses and departed. 

It wasn’t at all unfamiliar for her to eat alone; it was how she always took meals back in her lifetime, away from all the others so nobody would know her face, her secret, her mother or her father. What was stranger was itself how strange it felt now, after eating together, laughing together -- _being friends_ was so recent, but it had wormed its way into her sense of normalcy.

She’d never expected to make friends with Lancelot. Tristan, sure -- he was easy, as he was dead well before she was seen as anything but a fine, if mysterious, young knight, so he held no personal grudge. Gawain had been ready to fight her all over again when he was summoned -- that was to be expected. The last time they’d seen each other, she had run Clarent through the visor of his helmet.

But him, too. Family spoke to the northerner. It demanded he hunt Lancelot to the ends of the earth, his old friend turned to sworn enemy after Agravain, Gareth, and Gaheris were killed. When he had been chastised for being so eager to kill his own sister -- when he’d learned Mordred was his sibling, too -- it had given him immediate pause. It took longer for him to patch things up with Lancelot than with Mordred.

Bedivere she truly had never expected to forgive her. He was Artoria’s and Kay’s childhood friend, like an uncle to Gawain -- and Mordred had ended all three of them at the point of her blade. Not to mention Bedivere’s own brother and cousin, Lucan and Griffeth. Mordred took everything from Bedivere, and in return the last thing she saw before she died was him turning his back on her and carrying Artoria away. He’d always been so nice to her before, just seeing the rage and sorrow was shocking, almost hurtful. Nobody was on her side -- but by that point, why would they have been?

He had all the reason in the world to hate her. But he didn’t. Or he tried not to -- he was always too nice -- and in the end, it started to be true. The knights of the Round Table were all friends again, arguably closer now than they ever had been in life. The only thing that was missing was the fact that all the tables were rectangular. It was actually odd for Mordred to eat without them now. 

She wondered, for a moment… This Arthur. What had his Mordred done to him?

“What is it?” she asked her not/other-father.

“Do you have a moment?”

“For what?” she repeated.

He paused, considering, then shook his head with a small smile. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you. But I need your help. Will you follow me?”

His eyes were so familiar but so foreign, clear as a lake but clouded as a stormfront. She didn’t _know_ this man. She surprised herself by knowing she would still die for him. Even after everything that had passed between her and her father, she still wanted to follow even this twisted mirror from another world. She cursed under her breath and rose.

“Thank you, Mordred.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Mordred followed this man down the halls, unable to help herself from watching virtually everything about him. He was usually so reclusive, up until that… fiasco of an icebreaker Arash and Master had tried to throw. 

He was taller than Artoria -- than her. Maybe that shouldn’t have been so surprising, it was just biology. But he looked older, too. More like Achilles or Cu, or… the Lance-wielding Artoria, actually. Their jawlines and cheekbones had hardened, and their eyes sharpened, in ways that Mordred’s hadn’t yet, her body stuck in her teenage years. Yet Arthur didn’t use Rhongomyniad. Mordred wondered how his life had differed to age him another decade past his female counterpart.

His Excalibur was different, too, she knew. It was larger, more like her Clarent, with a blade of pure gold, hollow in the center, inscribed all over with faerie runes. Why was the sword different? Did the faeries make more than one Excalibur? Did Arthur still receive a different version of Avalon, too, or did he receive it at all?

She hardly noticed they were walking into the simulator, until she realized the other knights were all gathered inside, as well, standing in a loose half-circle. She stared at them, everyone who had staggered various excuses to duck out of lunch, and they all stared back, none of them saying anything. Everyone was in full armor. 

“Give me your sword, Mordred,” Arthur said. “And take a knee.”

“What?” Mordred asked, snapping her armor and weapon into place with a flutter of confusion and panic as the other knights around them all unsheathed their swords.

“Doff your helmet,” Arthur said. “This has to be done right.” 

The circle of knights closed around her. Mordred had no idea what the hell was happening. Maybe she had misjudged everyone. Maybe they had decided there were enough of them that they no longer needed her, and now was when they finally got their revenge on the Knight of Rebellion who had damned them all and destroyed their shared dream. She couldn’t think of any other reason for this. Something like animalistic dread took root.

And still her instincts told her to follow her instructions. She tensed, cursed, and dropped to one knee, letting her helmet break into pieces and slide into place in her armor. Then she raised Clarent, knuckles white under her gauntlet, and let him take it gently from her. “Whatever you’re doing, just... hurry it up.”

Her eyes couldn’t help but follow the tip of her sword as it hung by Arthur’s boots. Held by the rightful king, the edges of the ceremonial sword began to glow a soft gold, just like Excalibur. 

Arthur was different. Even when he’d tried to avoid everyone, he always played with the child Servants. He talked with Arash about fighting being fundamentally wrong. 

It wasn’t even the same weapon, but all she could think of was Camlann. All she could think of was the horrible pain in her heart and in her abdomen.

“Sir Modredus of Lodonesia,” Arthur said, latinizing her name and technical homeland in that typical stiff manner of courtly things that she so disliked. “Son of Arthur, grandson of Uther, and great-grandson of Flavius Claudius Constantinus. You are one of the finest knights of my Table. A loyal subject of Britain. None can question your conduct in court.”

Mordred scoffed softly, her lips curling to a smirk. _Loyal_ her ass, she was the infamous prodigal, the Knight of Treachery. Court had always been an act for her, and not a comfortable one. Whatever game he was playing -- because flattery was always, always a game -- she couldn’t help but laugh at the paltry attempts. She was ready for the other shoe to drop.

“In battle, none can match the strength or courage of you or your brothers. You have been wronged much by life, yet never have you struck out against others, except where your duty commanded you. In the face of wrath which has consumed countless petty lords, you are disciplined.”

More empty compliments that were only true long ago, before Camlann, when she was another person, a lie, a tool for her mother. Mordred’s eyes flicked around Arthur’s armored boots, searching for answers to what was supposed to be happening, what the fucking _point_ was. She gave a start, nearly bolted upright when she felt a hand rest gently on her head. She looked up in confusion and found herself meeting a set of green eyes that mirrored her own.

“When you want to be,” Arthur added, smiling softly and looking at her. _At_ her, not through. It was some trick. It always was. Dealing with her mother had, eventually, taught her better. What was it he wanted from her?

“You are pure of heart,” he said softly, and Mordred was too confused now to laugh. The knights slowly lowered their swords, so the tips hovered around her in a halo, pointing her out from all angles. 

“I acknowledge you.” 

Mordred didn’t know what she was hearing anymore. 

Arthur stood. “Blood of my blood. I name you _Medraut Penndraig, Tywysog Cymru, Etifedd Pritani._ Arise now Prince Mordred, Duke of Cornwall, heir to the crown of Britain. Take up your sword. It is needed.”

Mordred looked up. She couldn’t breathe. Clarent was blinding in his hand, reflecting off his armor, an argent reflection of the skies around them. Arthur was looking down at her, holding out his hand and offering her sword hilt-first, waiting for her. 

She let him help her to her feet, took Clarent back from him numbly, devoid of thought or feeling, still searching his face for what was really going on. A cruel joke of some kind. She shifted her sword in her hand, uncomfortable with idleness, and was suddenly distracted.

Her sword felt lighter. Better-balanced. The weight felt more centered. It looked… brighter, like part of the light it had gained in Arthur’s hands still remained. She flourished it once in her hand, and the blade sang through the air, more gracefully than ever before, gleaming and dazzling. The Sword of the King. It recognized her. The sword couldn’t be tricked or bribed, and it couldn’t easily be reset. Arthur had meant it. Every word. She was his heir.

The knights -- her friends, her brother, and something like her surrogate uncle -- were all around her, clapping her on the pauldrons and congratulating her: their new prince. 

She blinked hard against the light of her sword. “I… I don’t…” 

"Mordred.” Arthur laid his hand on her vambrace, and she was able to look away to her King. He looked almost as trepidatious as she felt, like he was afraid she might bite him. “Do you want to try it out?”

He was trusting her. She had mostly given up her petty dreams of the throne after less than a year in Chaldea. Camelot was gone, their Britain was gone, and there was no place in the normal world for them anymore, not least as kings. It wasn’t really what she’d cared about in the first place. It was an empty gesture -- and still it meant everything to her. He’d meant it.

“Yeah,” she said.

They kicked on the simulator, and the floor seemed to drop out from beneath them, a digital reconstruction of one of the Lostbelt’s Trees of Emptiness assembling in the air before them. 

Arthur summoned Excalibur to his palm in a burst of light, and wind roared around them. Blue lightning started to spark at his boots, and Mordred reached inside herself to ignite the same thunderclap of energy. Clarent’s hilt blossomed in her hand and she lifted it to high guard, glowing now not bloodthirsty red but beautiful gold, light spilling into light as Arthur and Excalibur mirrored her at her shoulder. 

“Are you ready?” he asked.

Her voice caught. “I don’t know,” she admitted, maybe for the first time in her life. This was everything she had ever wanted while she was alive, but now…

Arthur smiled. “You won’t,” he said. “But that’s alright. All you have to do is think, and feel. And you’re much better at feeling than I am.”

“What am I… _feeling_ right now?” Mordred asked, nearly breathless.

“Prayers,” he said. “The wishes of humanity. Reaching up toward the sky. Pleading for victory. For hope. These swords are made of prayers. Listen to the voices within. That is the king’s burden, and his strength. How will you answer them, Mordred?”

Her grip on Clarent tightened, her face set -- into the grin of a wolf. _“All right -- bring it!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy, it's been a while. This was delayed a while until my friend started the Lostbelts, in interest of avoiding spoilers. It started out with the realization that Arthur/Artoria could use Clarent, as they would still be recognized as its rightful king (It was also a result of my idle obsession with the Celtic Welsh roots of Arthurian myth).
> 
> The quotes from Merlin are shamelessly lifted from T. H. White's _Once and Future King_ , which is also the source for how I've decided to characterize Arthur, as a boy of perfectly unexceptional temperament who struggles to first learn for himself, and later pass on to the entire kingdom, a dream of goodness and ethics. It's a great read.
> 
> There'll be more stuff coming from me. I've got two kinda huge fics coming along nicely, one being Fate and also my 2020 NaNoWriMo. Once that goes into its final stages, there are a few other smaller fics I plan to write. For now though, that's sucking up all my focus.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, folks!


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